


Family

by sam80853



Category: due South
Genre: AU, Kid!Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam80853/pseuds/sam80853
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray meets a boy (and his half-wolf) who is in search of his father, a Mountie, who himself is on pursuit of his wife, a bank robber. It's getting really complicated pretty fast ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family

It’s just one of these days in Ray Kowalski’s life that's bad before it's even fully started. The sky above his head is heavy grey like it’s going to start pelting giant snowballs at Ray’s head any minute – in May.

So, it’s kind of dark outside and Ray didn’t sleep more than three hours last night, and to make it even better he's run out of coffee. That means he isn’t really awake yet, kind of sleepwalking, really, and craving a cup of dark-black, bitter sludge coffee at the 27th precinct, when he rounds the corner to the entrance and almost runs into … something. Ray doesn’t really know what because, you know with the sleepwalking thing, and he doesn’t have his glasses on anyway. But that something, someone really, starts apologizing, not getting out of Ray’s way.

Ray isn’t paying any attention to the words that are coming out of this morning annoyance - caffeine is all Ray is able to think about at the moment. So, he just goes around this human obstacle to get into the police station, ignoring the small voice following him up the stairs and into the break room where Ray greedily fetches himself a cup of coffee, then shuffles to his desk.

Ray takes a seat and leans back in his chair, enjoying the dark caffeine running down this throat, getting his engine slowly greased up and running.

“You now running a day care now, Kowalski?” Detective Thomas Dewey yells over the room, and Ray finally snaps out of his caffeine rush and looks kind of startled at a boy, maybe eight or nine years old, standing in front of his desk, rubbing his eyebrow nervously.

“Huh?”

“I apologize for interrupting your morning routine, Detective Kowalski,” the boy coughs kind of embarrassed, “but I am,” he is interrupted by a growling of a huge white furball with something which looks suspiciously like one of Detective Louis Gardino’s donuts at his feet, “we are in need of your help.”

“Kid, I’m not a social worker,” is all Ray can come up with, looking at the boy who’s spouting big words like he’s swallowed a dictionary, and the white animal that looks suspiciously like a wolf. Not that Ray knows what a real wolf looks like but this is definitely not a dog, no.

“I’m fully aware of the fact, Detective,” the boy sighs deeply like he’s used to being dealt with like the child he is, making Ray smile for the first time today, and he takes a closer look.

The boy doesn’t appear neglected or abused but you never know with these things. His clothes are clean – not a wrinkle anywhere on his plain blue flannel shirt nor a smudge of dirt on his jeans like you would expect on a boy his age. Intelligent blue eyes almost covered by a wave of thick dark hair that’s longish, touching the collar of his shirt on the back of his neck.

“That’s not a dog,” Ray states, pointing at the animal that is at the boy's feet eating his recently acquired donut, leaving crumbs all over the floor which he thoroughly licks up.

“His name is Diefenbaker; he is a half-wolf.”

“What’s your name then?”

“As I said earlier,” the boy seems a bit irritated by Ray’s obviously already-answered question, and appears to be seriously reconsidering his choice in seeking help from Ray.

“…my name is Samuel Robert Fraser and …”

“You need my help.”

“Yes.”

“And you know that this is Homicide?”

“Exactly.”

“All right, then,” Ray points at the chair in front of his desk and grabs a pen and a piece of paper.

The boy slowly takes a seat, his feet hanging above the ground by quite a few inches, eyeing Ray suspiciously like he expects him to throw him out at any minute.

“Who’s dead?”

“Jolly Hughes.”

Ray jumps out of his chair in a heartbeat – the abandoned stool falling to the ground unnoticed -, and kneels beside the boy. What was his name again?

Fraser.

Fraser.

An uneasy feeling settles in his stomach, he has heard that name before and …

“What’s your mother’s name, Sam?” He asks, expecting the blow that the boy easily delivers.

“Victoria Fraser, Metcalf is her maiden name.”

“Holy fuc … shit,” Ray swears, pulling away from the boy, pacing up and down. Out of the corner of his eyes Ray sees the boy slightly trembling, his bottom lip shaking like he’s about to cry - Victoria Metcalf is his mother, yes. And Victoria Metcalf is a thief and murderer, and …still his mother.

Victoria Metcalf.

“Come with me.”

Ray has stopped pacing, details of the Metcalf case running through his head, and sees Sam bending over his half-wolf, hanging onto him for security, almost sliding off his chair. He somehow knows that the boy doesn’t want to be seen like this; he considers just lifting the boy off his chair but thinks better of it and touches his shoulder, steering him toward Interrogation Room Two.

Ray gently pushes the boy into the room, asking: “You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Sam whispers, his head bent, avoiding Ray’s eyes.

“I need another cup of coffee,” Ray states and leaves the boy alone, closing the door behind him.

Metcalf.

Ray thought he would never hear about her again, like ever. She has paid her due – even if the money was never found - but she was just driving the runway car after all, at least that’s what everyone believed. Jolly Hughes was always telling a whole other story and now he’s dead.

In the break room Ray pours himself another cup of coffee, thinking about the boy in Interrogation Room Two – how did he fit into this story? And why is he in Chicago?

Time to look up some old facts, Ray decides, and hurries with his cup in hand toward Francesca Vecchio, the station’s Civilian Aide.

Ms. Vecchio is, as always, dressed in a tiny shirt – bright yellow today - and a too-short skirt, polishing her fingernails in front of her computer terminal and Ray’s would look for the file himself if he had any knowledge about the folder system.

“Frannie, I need the Metcalf file in Interrogation Room Two,” he bellows more than asks and Frannie looks up at him, rolling her eyes.

“Please?”

“Metcalf, you say?” Frannie asks, blowing over her freshly painted pink nails before she grabs a pen and paper.

“Victoria Metcalf,” Ray clarifies. “Old case, nine years ago,” he turns away from her, mumbling his: “Thanks, Frannie,” when he suddenly stops and faces her again. “Ah, Frannie, what do small kids drink?”

Francesca Vecchio looks at him like he has lost his mind, frowning.

“How the hell should I know, Ray?”

“Right.” Ray dismisses his own question and heads for the vending machine, throwing in some coins and pushing the button for ‘Coke’ – kids like Coca Cola, right?

When Ray opens the door to Interrogation Room Two Sam is sitting at the table, one hand on Diefenbaker’s neck, his face perfectly blank like he wasn’t just near tears a few minutes ago.

Ray admires the boy’s self-control but asks himself if it’s something he just does naturally or something he’s learned to protect himself – is it even healthy to suppress your emotions like that?

Ray himself wears his heart on his sleeve; you always know where you stand with him. He is known for his short fuse and 'you better not to mess with him or he may lash out’ mentality. Not so the boy. He’s just sitting at the desk, looking at Ray with calm blue eyes.

Ray places the Coca-Cola can in front of Sam and takes a seat opposite from him, sipping his coffee, and watches.

The boy doesn’t seem to know what to make out of the cola can like, maybe, he had never seen one before.

“Thank you kindly,” Sam says, placing his small hands around the can, hanging onto the bright red can without opening it. “Did you know that John S. Pemberton, who invented this beverage, claimed Coca-Cola cured morphine addiction, dyspepsia, neurasthenia, headache and impotence when it was first sale in 1886?”

“No,” Ray smiles at the boy, leans toward him. “I didn’t know that.”

He points at the can, deliberately ignoring the word ‘impotence’ coming from an eight year old boy. “You need help with that?”

“I’m not thirsty, thank you.”

“All right.” Ray leans back again, his face getting serious. “What are you doing in Chicago, Sam?”

“I came to Chicago with my father on the trail of …”

“Your father?” Ray interrupts. “Where is he now?”

Sam’s eyes flicker shut for a second before he opens them again, looking lost and vulnerable for the first time.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, his hands abandoning the can and grabbing for the half-wolf’s neck, giving away the fear of a frightened child whose world is suddenly upside-down.

Ray is tempted to just round the desk and hug the kid but he’s in no position to offer such comfort. He’s a stranger and he somehow knows that such an attempt would not be welcomed by the boy.

“Ray!” The door busts open and both Ray and the boy wince in surprise when Francesca Vecchio appears in the doorframe.

“Frannie!” Ray yells, getting up hastily and shoving his body between the Civilian Aide and the child.

“Sorry.” Frannie stands on her toes, trying to take a look over Ray’s shoulder. “Who’s this?”

“No one.”

Frannie rolls her eyes and side-steps but Ray follows and they start a Pasa Doble around each other.

“Ray!” Frannie seems annoyed but can’t get around; Ray’s too quick on his feet. So she does the only reasonable thing to get her way and drops the case file which falls to the ground, spilling its content.

“Frannie.” Ray won’t clear the mess, no, Francesca would when suddenly small hands sweep over the ground, collecting papers – reports, statements, pictures.

“Oh,” Francesca flutters her eyelashes at Sam who’s gathering the papers off the ground. “What a polite little thing.”

“He’s not a …,” Ray is about to say when his eyes drop to the boy who’s holding a picture of Victoria Metcalf in his shaking hands.

A picture clearly taken at a police station, no doubt just after his father has turned her in.

A beautiful woman. Dark curly hair surrounding a lovely face – the boy’s mother.

A thief.

A murderer.

“Gimme that,” Ray grabs the picture and the rest of the papers out of Sam’s hands, glaring at Francesca who’s backing away embarrassedly.

“Sorry!”

Ray steers the boy back to his chair, not paying any attention to Francesca who silently leaves the room and shuts the door quietly.

“I’m truly sorry,” Sam whispers, his little form still shaking slightly.

“It’s ok,” Ray says, his voice low, understanding. “Sit down.” He holds the chair and touches Sam’s shoulder assuring before he takes a seat himself, tiding up the case file to give the boy some time to readjust.

Metcalf, Victoria, born April 12 in 1960  
Married to Fraser, Benton, January 31st 1988  
Mother to Fraser, Samuel Robert, born September 18th 1988

Sam must have been born in prison, then, Ray figures, but before he can find the right form to confirm his assumption the boy starts to talk.

“My father took me home one day after I was born,” the boy says, looking at the file in Ray’s hand like he knows exactly what Ray was just thinking about.

“Pretty tough, huh?”

“Quite the contrary, I had my father and Diefenbaker to take care of me,” Sam answers, his voice strong again, like it’s perfectly normal to be born in prison and raised by just your father and a half-wolf while your mother serves a sentence.

“What happened, Sam? Where is your father?”

The small hand on the half-wolf’s neck twitches and Ray notices a brief shake of the child’s lower lip before his face is perfectly shielded again.

“My father followed a lead. He told me to seek your help if he didn’t return by 6 o’clock last night.”

“A lead?” Ray’s confused. “What lead? What are you even doing here?”

Ray remembers the arresting officer of Victoria Metcalf, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. It was all-over the news nine years ago – actually a pretty corny love story: brave Mountie tracks robber, finds her, they almost die in a snow storm, fall in love, marry, have a baby-boy and live happily ever after.

Maybe not so happily ever after, after all - especially with the sentence Metcalf had to serve for driving the get-away car. That couldn’t have been a good condition for a happy family life.

Ray was positioned in Anchorage at the time, nine years ago, and was one of the investigators of the bank robberies committed by Victoria Metcalf. Unfortunately his divorce went through at the time Metcalf was finally caught and handed over to the states by the Canadian authorities. Ray was on his way back to Chicago then, not thinking about much but getting away. He learned later that Metcalf was only convicted for driving the getaway car although Ray always suspected she was the brains behind the outfit and far more dangerous than she let on.

“As an officer of the law my father considered it his duty to …,” the little boy’s voice breaks; his precocious self-control is slipping, leaving just a child behind - he’s just a kid with tears, which he tries to wipe off as soon as they escape his eyes, but they still end up streaming down his face.

The half-wolf, who has sat quietly at the boy’s side the entire time, leans heavy against the small sobbing form now, his paws on the child’s thighs, glancing accusingly at Ray before he starts licking tears off the boy’s face.

Ray’s heart is hammering wildly in his chest; he doesn’t know what to do. He has no experience with kids, none. Crying criminals, yes. But not this, not these heartbreaking sobs from an eight year old boy.

The boy’s silent sobs last for about three weeks, it seems to Ray, or at least long enough for Ray to consider his options which are randomly running through his head. Should he leave the boy alone? Say something comforting and what? Hug him? Offer him chocolate? What?

A loudly blown nose saves Ray for making a decision. Sam has a formerly clean white handkerchief in his hand, trying desperately to erase the evidence of his crying from his face.

“I’m …”

“Do not apologize.” Ray knows exactly what the boy is going to say and he won’t hear anything of it. “Look, there’s no shame in tears.”

“As my father has told me many times,” Ray almost laughs out loud about that offhanded comeback and the boy flashes something resembling a smile.

The atmosphere in the room changes almost immediately, like a spell is broken, like Ray and the boy are finally on the same page. Even the half-wolf moves down to the floor again, nosing a worn-looking backpack at the child’s feet.

“What’s with him?” Ray asks, pointing at the animal.

“Ah,” the boy rubs his eyebrow as an embarrassed gesture and takes a thick file folder out of his backpack. “My father’s findings,” he says and hands over a file.

Ray opens the file and swallows hard. All of the Frasers’ life lays in front of him, including dental records of all three, blood samples, even; pictures, reports, statements, and there is an envelope with Ray’s name on it: Detective Stanley R. Kowalski, 27th Police Department, Chicago.

Answers. This envelope would include answers to all of Ray’s questions – clearly stated, blue on white, and suddenly Ray isn’t so sure anymore that he really wants to know. It’s complicated already: a Mountie, a criminal and a kid.

And a murder on top of it all.

“Kowalski!” The door swings open with a BANG! and Ray jumps out of his chair, the half-wolf growling deeply in his throat.

“Diefenbaker,” Ray hears Sam’s calming down the animal while he backs Gardino out the door, closing it behind him.

“You ever heard of knocking, Gardino?” Ray snarls at the man, rolling on the heel of his feet.

“You jumpy all of a sudden, Kowalski?” Gardino grins. “Who’s the kid?”

“Gimme a second,” Ray says, ignoring Gardino’s question, and turns back to the door.

“I need that room!”

“Yeah, I got it,” he shuts the door in Gardino’s face, breathes deeply, considering his options.

He has a case to work on now – Jolly Hughes is dead--Ray still needs to verify that and there is a kid and his half-wolf, let’s not forget the missing Mountie. “C’mon, lets get out of here.” Ray grabs his files from the table while Sam slides off his chair, taking his backpack. “We have to find someone to look after you.” Ray opens to door, steers the kid, who grows suddenly tense under his touch, out of the room.

“I thought you … you would …”

“Look, Sam,” Ray kneels down to be on eyelevel with the boy, “I’m a police officer. There are people more experienced than me to take care of you. Even the wolf is more qualified than me, ok, buddy?”

“I can take care of myself.” Sam steps out under Ray’s hand, his small form stretched straight.

“Sam!”

“Diefenbaker and I will leave now, thank you kindly.” the boy states and turns, the half-wolf trotting along.

“Sam!” Ray follows them out the station, not knowing how the little guy musters such confidence - his father did a fine job raising such a brave and insane boy. “C’mon, Sam,” he calls again when neither boy nor half-wolf stop. “It’s my duty as a police officer to turn you over to …”

“I am not a citizen of this city, Detective Kowalski.” Finally the boy stops, his small face earnest. “Not even of this country. So, I fail to see why your authorities are in any way responsible for me or Diefenbaker.”

Oh, Ray grins, he’s shitting me, knowing perfectly well that he’s not supposed to run around all by himself – passive-aggressive little guy.

“The Canadian Consulate then.”

“I would rather not …”

“Sam!”

“My father was under the impression that you personally would see to our well-being but he must have been mistaken and …”

“All right,” Ray rises his hands in surrender, grinning. “All right, we do it your way.” No point in arguing when the boy already proved that he is able to look after himself, and Ray preferred not to think about what may happen to Sam and the wolf if he really turns him over to Family Services.

“Thank you kindly, Detective Kowalski.” The boy can’t suppress a small grin of satisfaction, falling into step beside Ray who steers them toward his car.

“But do not forget I’m the grown-up here.”

“Understood.”

Ray opens the passenger door of his pitch-black 1967 GTO: “You wait in the car while I get my files.”

“Certainly,” the boy answers, getting comfortable in the front seat of Ray’s car.

~::~::~

Back at the station Ray grabs his jacket from his chair and turns toward his lieutenant’s office.

“Hughes case,” Ray says, “I want it.”

“Oh, ‘morning to you too, Detective.” Lieutenant Welsh, a bulky dark-haired man, grumbles in reply. “What makes you think I would hand over this case to you?”

“It’s my case,” Ray states angrily. “I was there right from the start – armed robbery, three known suspects.” He counts down on his fingers. “One dead – two left. Money was never found. Suspected connection to Chicago mob…”

“Whoa, whoa, Detective,” Welsh interrupts, sitting straight in his chair now. “There was never any evidence to support that speculation.”

“Victoria Metcalf is in Chicago.”

Welsh eyes Ray suspiciously: “How do you know?”

“I’ve got my source,” Ray shrugs his shoulders.

“All right, Kowalski. You’re on the case.”

“Thanks, sir!”

Ray hurries out of the police station back to his car, his arms packed with case files and notes he took nine years ago.

“My place then,” he says, firing up the engine of his car.

“I can’t go with you,” Sam states, looking uncomfortable.

“What? Why not?”

“I’m,” the boy coughs, rubbing his eyebrow, “It looks like I’m not at the minimum height to accompany you in your car, Detective.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a traffic regulation that children are supposed to be seated in a child safety seat.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

Ray clenches his hand on the wheel –there really are drawbacks having a kid.

“I’m truly sorry.”

“Never mind.” Ray jumps out of the car again, remembering Desk Sergeant Dickens mumbling something about getting rid of the child safety seat in his car awhile ago.

“Dickens!” Ray is barely in the station again, yelling for Sergeant Dickens attention, not caring that the man is talking on the phone. “You still got that child car seat you were ranting about?”

Dickens frowns at him in question, one hand covering the phone receiver.

“You suddenly spout a kid, Kowalski?”

“Very funny, hardy-ha-ha,” Ray grins but not even remotely amused. “What about the seat?”

“Still in my car,” Dickens answers, ‘hmmm’-ing in the phone while he fishes for his car keys, pointing out the back door toward the parking lot. “Ford Explorer, blue.”

“Right,” Ray nods. “Thanks.” He’s at the door already when something dawns on him: “It’s not like for a baby or something, is it?” He has no clue of how old Dickens’ kid is but he knows at least that there are supposed to be different seats for kids of different ages.

“It’s a booster seat,” Dickens says like that is supposed to mean anything to Ray. “She’s with her mother,” Dickens rolls his eyes. “They moved to Baltimore. Divorce is hell.”

“Ah,” Ray doesn’t know what a divorce is like for a kid but he himself has suffered enough to have a pretty good idea. He cocks his head in sympathy and walks out the back door to Dickens car, gets the seat and is back at his own car under ten minutes, watching with amusement as Sam installs the seat and buckles up.

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

Ray’s finally on the road, driving through traffic as usual – ignoring stop signs and equally annoying things. Except there is an eight year old boy in the front seat shaking his head disapprovingly and a half-wolf in the back who’s suddenly bathing his face in spit. He tries to shove the half-wolf’s nuzzle away from him, unsuccessfully.

“Stop what he's doing to me, the things he's doing to me!”

“It could be a sign of affection…” the boy suggests, unmoved.

“Or what?”

“A prelude to lunch.” There is an amusement in the child’s voice and Ray’s sure that the half-wolf doesn’t mean any harm. But spit all over your face is so not funny.

“He's doing disgusting things to my ear. Get him off me!”

“He doesn't always listen to me.” The boy doesn’t even look at his animal; he’s just watching the traffic like Ray might actually crash the car. “He's deaf but he does read lips, so enunciate clearly.”

Ray grabs the half-wolf by his nuzzle and yells in his face: “Get off me, exclamation mark!” And, it works! The half-wolf lets go of him and gets comfortable in the back seat again.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Detective!”

~::~::~

“You want something to drink?” Ray heads for the fridge as soon as he closes the apartment door behind them - he’s thirsty, a cold beer might be good right about now.

“A glass of milk would be nice, thank you, Detective.”

“Call me Ray,” Ray says while he looks into his fridge, knowing that he wouldn’t find any milk inside. That stuff always goes sour on him and he likes his coffee black anyway – except with the M&M’s, of course.

“Ray?”

“Yes?” Ray’s head is still inside the fridge but he comes up when nothing follows. “What?”

The boy barely stands still in Ray’s living room like he’s supposed to leave any minute again, his hands nervously fumbling with the strings of his backpack while the half-wolf’s already on the couch, getting comfortable.

“Just Ray?”

“Yeah,” Ray comes out of the kitchen and steers Sam gently toward his couch. “Your wolf licked all over my face; that gives me the right to call him Dief,” he grins assuring, “and you, buddy, criticized my driving …”

“You were violating at least half a dozen traffic laws,” the boy interrupts kind of sulking.

“Maybe. Maybe not. The point is, anybody criticizing anything should call me Ray, at least.”

“That doesn’t make any sense … Ray.”

“Not much ever does,” Ray seats the boy beside him on the couch, pushing off Diefenbaker in the process. “No milk, buddy, sorry.”

“A glass of water will do the trick as well,” Sam assures Ray, getting a small leather bag out of his backpack.

“What is that?” Ray frowns suspiciously over that smelly something Sam gets out of his small bag.

“Pemmican.”

“Pemmi … what?”

“Dried meat, Ray,” Sam explains, his eyes shining with amusement. “Very nutritious, and if you are still hungry afterwards, you just have to drink water and it will grow in your stomach.”

“Put that away… I’ll erm…I’ll get us a pizza,” Ray jumps off the couch, getting away from that stinky meat stuff in Sam’s hand, eyeing it suspiciously, and presses the speed dial for Sandor. “It’s me, Kowalski,” he says when Sandor answers the phone. “I want the usual and do not forget my pineapple again!”

~::~::~

Their pizza arrives twenty minutes later and Ray even has plates which he places on his kitchen counter.

"Dinner is ready," Ray calls from the kitchen. Both Sam and Diefenbaker emerge from the living room.

"Let me help you", Ray says, lifting Sam up and setting him on the bar stool.

"Thank you."

"Never mind," Ray grins over the counter at Sam. "Dig in."

There is a slight frown on Sam's face but after some sniffing, which Ray finds kind of amusing, the boy takes a bite, chewing carefully. Then his taste buds must finally kick in, because suddenly he starts smiling, and eats enthusiastically.

"Good?"

"Delicious, Ray."

It takes a second nudge at his leg for Ray to pay attention to his second guest, an obviously hungry half-wolf.

"What's he going to eat?"

"Diefenbaker ate this morning. One meal per day is more than sufficient for him," Sam explains, licking his fingers clean.

"Sufficient, huh?" Ray looks down into pleading eyes. When Sam isn't looking Ray slides Diefenbaker a piece of pizza which the half-wolf scarf, begging for more immediately.

"Fast food is not very healthy for a wild animal, or any animal for that matter, Ray," Sam explains. "Without exercise he's going to get fat."

Ray grins kind of guilty, scratching the back of his neck - stop feeding your leftovers to the wolf, he notes to himself.

The rest of their meal passes in comfortable silence.

It feels good to eat with someone, Ray thinks. It's far too long since there was anyone here with him enjoying a pizza. Usually it's just him and ... him.

Eating is something Ray does on autopilot - open up, chew, swallow, done.

Of course, eating with someone has certain drawbacks - like dirty dishes - but Sam insists on helping to clean up. They are done in no time, and Ray's kitchen is cleaner than it's ever been.

“You wanna watch TV?" Ray asks, turning on his television while Sam settles on the couch again.

“Thank you, but I have a book.” Sam pulls a book out of his backpack, and Ray wonders what else the boy may hide in there.

“You can read?”

“Of course, Ray.” the boy fidgets with the book in his small hands. “I have been familiar with the alphabet since I attended grade one in Inuvik,” Sam states, and buries his nose between the pages.

“All right, then.” Ray watches a second, but when Sam continues to pay close attention to his book he walks to his kitchen counter again, reaching for the case files.

Jolly Hughes had been one of Ray’s snitches here in Chicago. A former associate of Metcalf’s, and now dead, making the whole case more mysterious by the second, in addition to Metcalf being somewhere in Chicago and her husband disappearing.

Ray takes the picture of Victoria Metcalf out of his file, a picture taken before she went to prison. She’s in business clothes – maybe in front of the courthouse? - looking like a woman who turns heads walking down the street. Ray understands why the Mountie fell for her – dark curly hair, pale skin; she looks like someone who needs protection and that is always a turn-on for any man, particularly men who see the consequences of crimes on a daily basis. But there is a darkness in her eyes that makes Ray shiver. This woman doesn’t need anyone but herself. Her body language may tell you to protect her but her eyes are saying something different entirely.

Fortunately Sam seems to take after his father.

The picture of Constable Benton Fraser shows a man in the brown uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, his dark wavy hair only slightly apparent under his Stetson. Kind eyes, what colour Ray can’t tell, but he guesses they're the same as Sam’s. A perfectly guarded handsome face that doesn’t give anything away, but Ray knows just by looking at the picture that the Mountie isn’t hiding any cruelty behind that mask. Sam wouldn’t have turned out the way he is with a father as cruel as his mother. The little boy has some kind of honesty in him he could only have learned from an equally honest father.

“What happened to you?” Ray whispers, sliding one finger over the picture.

Ray suddenly remembers the envelope and he searches through the papers, his hand a bit unsteady when he finds and opens it.

Detective First Grade Stanley R. Kowalski

Perfect handwriting – the Mountie used a pen, even.

I am perfectly aware of the responsibilities I force on you by placing my son under your care.

Ray takes a look over his shoulder to the living room couch where Sam’s still deeply lost in his book. Only his head is visible over its backrest.

Considering all my options at this point – after taking Sam along to Chicago - I have to admit to not knowing what else to do.

I have a sister - half-sister to be precise - in Tuktoyaktuk. Her name is Margaret McKenzie; her contact information you may find in my files. She is also a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and she would gladly take care of my son should anything happen to me. I debated sending him there in the first place but knowing my wife, she would go looking for Sam at my sister’s at the first opportunity and I do not wish for either of them to come to any harm.

Ray scratches his jaw, looking at Victoria Metcalf’s picture while he reaches for Fraser’s file with his right hand and opens it up.

I reconstructed my wife’s life over the last six years …

There’s a huge lump in Ray’s throat. Investigating your own wife, the mother of your son, must have been a hell of a thing for Fraser.

Anything I remember and discovered is also listed in my files.

Family pictures.  
Statement of accounts.  
Plane tickets.  
Travel expenses.  
Blood samples.  
Dental records.  
Marriage License.  
Sam's birth certificate

The guy really is thorough, baring his whole life to a stranger.

As a former investigator of this specific case I place my trust in you to seek justice and, above all, to look after my son and the half-wolf accompanying him.

Yours Sincerely,  
Constable Benton Fraser

 

Addition: I truly hope you will not consider my unapproved reading of your personal file as an intrusion of your privacy. If so please accept my truly apology.

Ray is still holding the letter in his hands when something wet nudges his elbow and drags him out of his thoughts.

“What’s up, mutt?” He asks the half-wolf sitting by his side, and pets his head before Dief backs out from under his hand and trots back to the couch, looking at Ray expectantly. Ray doesn’t know much about wolves, or half-wolves, but to him it seems kind of remarkable for a supposed-to-be wild animal to look after a kid like its part of his pack and has to be protected, maybe at any cost.

Sam has fallen asleep and Ray notices that it's almost midnight. The television is still running, illuminating Sam’s peaceful sleeping face and Ray can’t help but run his hand through Sam’s dark hair tenderly.

Would a son of his and Stella’s turn out to be anything like this little guy?

Sam's book lies on his chest, moving up and down with his breathing. Ray picks it up gently and sets it on the coffee table.

“Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

A storybook.

Ray smiles. He he'd loved that story as a kid, even had a copy with him every day in school until he figured it was not cool to be a Senior and carrying a children’s book, and put it away.

Carefully Ray lifts the boy up from the couch and carries him into his bedroom, laying him on the bed, pulling a sheet over him. Diefenbaker jumps up as soon as Ray has tucked the kid in, his strong form closely pressed to Sam’s side.

“’Night,” Ray says to no one in particular and closes the door behind him, taking his seat at the kitchen counter again.

There is a case to solve.

~::~::~

Fraser’s file is accurate, with the dates and plane tickets when his wife left for Chicago three or four times a year. He obviously wasn’t suspicious then, otherwise the Mountie would have investigated her leavings earlier.

Looks like Victoria had a sister in town, a sister who died three months ago in a car crash. That explains the visits, Ray thinks. But after Laura’s death Victoria kept coming to town, more often, even. She never took along her husband or son. Odd, but not all that unusual. Maybe she didn’t want to drag Sam through half of Canada to spend his time in the big city, maybe Sam didn’t want to go with her… But in the end something must tipped Fraser off.

But what?

Ray doesn’t know, he has to ask Fraser then if, no, when he finds him.

More papers.

Documents – statements of account which reveal that the family only had the money Fraser earned, no stolen money on a bankbook. At least on no bankbook Fraser knew about. Tax returns, a list of their yearly costs. Fraser looks as clean as a newborn child.

But something went wrong – Jolly Hughes is dead and Victoria is on the run again.

The sun is already up when Ray’s eyes finally fall shut, his head resting on some papers on the kitchen counter.

~::~::~

Ray wakes up to water running in the bathroom and a low voice telling Diefenbaker to be quiet as their host may be still asleep.

A piece of paper sticks to Ray’s cheek -- he must have drooled in his sleep -- his neck is sore but hearing another voice in the morning makes him smile anyway.

Sam comes into the kitchen, smiling shyly, Diefenbaker on his heels. “Good Morning, Ray.”

“’Morning.” Ray cracks his neck, groaning when it snaps painfully.

“I’m sorry for taking your bed, Ray. I’m more suited to sleep on the couch than you.”

“You saying my couch is too small for a grown man,” Ray asks teasingly, looking between his tiny short couch and Sam.

“Actually I do, Ray.”

Ray grins about Sam’s playfully remark, getting up from his seat to his coffee machine. Like every morning he needs caffeine to get his brain working.

Water. Filter. Coffee powder – red button, done.

“Still no milk,” Ray says turning away from the brown liquid running throw the filter into the coffeepot. “No bread either. Or cornflakes. Sorry.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of a day, Ray.”

“There is still a piece of pizza from last night.”

“Ray!”

“We’ll get you something on our way to work,” Ray promises. “For you too,” he adds when Diefenbaker hungrily eyes last night’s pizza box.

“Thank you kindly.”

“You’re welcome.”

If Ray isn’t careful he’ll take over Sam’s good manners. Not that good manners are something bad but as a police detective he has a reputation to maintain and running around thanking perps kindly will get him nowhere with his street cred. Better watch it then.

“I have to take Diefenbaker for a walk.” Sam takes his jacket from the couch, waiting for Ray’s permission to leave.

“All right,” he agrees after a moment’s hesitation, considering that nobody knows that Sam is with him and should be safe for just a walk around the block. “Take the key ok? I’ll take a shower.”

When Ray gets back from the shower a coffee mug sits on the counter, smelling heavenly. Sam must be back then but he’s nowhere seen. Ray takes his mug, drops some M&M’s into the brown liquid, takes a sip and starts looking around his apartment.

Diefenbaker lazily lies on the couch, hair of his white fur already on the upholstery but Ray doesn’t mind much. It’s nice to finally have another heartbeat around the apartment.

It’s a small place and eventually Ray spots Sam in his bedroom, bed perfectly made. It looks like you can bounce a coin off it but Sam isn’t so much bouncing off the bed like Ray used to do as a kid but sitting there, shoulders hunched inwards, looking at a picture in his hand.

Ray carefully takes a seat on his bed, taking another sip.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re quite welcome, Ray.” Sam whispers, not looking up from his father’s photograph in his small hands.

“You okay, buddy?”

“He is going to be all right, is he, Ray?”

“Yeah, Sam,” Ray promised, feeling almost guilty of making a promise he doesn’t know to be true.

Sam nods slowly.

“My father is the best tracker and policeman in the Northwest Territories. He was wounded several times,” Sam sighs deeply, his fingers gliding over the picture. “There once was a trapper named BlindEye Joe, he fell down a canyon, just holding onto a small branch. My father was in pursuit of him and just reached him in time to pull him up into safety. Blindeye Joe struggled, resisting arrest and stabbed my father in his shoulder. A deep wound. It bled badly.” He falters then. “But he has always come home at night.”

“Your father is a brave man, Sam, a good officer. I’m sure he is okay.”

“Yes.” Sam nods again, reaching for his backpack to carefully put away his photograph.

With a small pat on Sam’s shoulder, Ray rises off the bed, giving the boy a second to himself.

~::~::~

On their way to the station Ray stops at a bakery, getting a bagel for Sam - “Not very nutritious, Ray” - who makes Ray promise to get something healthy called ‘oatmeal’ later, and a jelly donut for Dief who immediately claims to be still hungry after just one pastry.

The station is the usual madhouse and Ray doesn’t really know what to do with Sam here. Is it even good for him to be here in the first place with all the noises of ringing phones, talking detectives, and obscenely yelling criminals with the overpowering smell of sweat, detergent, blood and who knows what else?

Ray scratches the back of his neck hesitantly but places the boy behind his desk, putting away files Ray has to read, check, and sign.

“You okay, Sam?”

“Yes, Ray, I’m fine,” Sam assures, taking the book he has read last night out of his backpack again. “I take it that you need another cup of coffee?”

Ray grins brightly, walking backwards out of the bullpen, one finger pointing at Sam. Diefenbaker follows at Ray's heels, pleading for food as soon as they enter the break room.

“Sorry, mutt, but I have no more donuts.”

“You talking to a dog now, Kowalski?” Louis Gardino appears at Ray’s side, a powdered jelly donut in one hand.

“You got a problem with that, Louie?” Ray glares at his fellow detective, rolling on the back of his heel. “And he’s a half-wolf, so you know.”

“I’m practically shaking in my shoes, Kowalski.”

Dief seems to catch up with the conversation; his eyes aren’t fixed on the donut anymore but on Gardino’s mouth and Ray could swear that he really reads lips because he starts growling deep in his throat.

“I should call the pound.”

Dief growls louder and Gardino steps back, his eyes fearful.

“You better watch your mouth, Louie,” Ray pets Dief’s head. “A peace offering can’t harm either,” he says, pointing at the donut and Gardino lets go of it immediately. The jelly donut doesn’t even reach the ground; Dief just catches it and swallows it with one bite.

“Thanks, Louie,” Ray grins, satisfied, and watches Gardino leave the break room swearing under his breath. “Good work, buddy.” Ray gets himself another cup of coffee. He will at least need two more before he’s half-functional.

With yet another mug in hand Ray comes back into the bullpen where Frannie has obviously spotted Sam, hanging over his shoulder, her body much too close for the boy’s comfort. But Sam may look uncomfortable but does not tell her to kindly step back.

“Back off, Frannie,” he calls from five feet away, making Frannie jump in her high heels, one hand over her heart.

“Ray!” she yells.

“He can’t breathe, Frannie.” Ray cocks his head, looking at Sam, who looks mortified. “Give him some room, will you?”

“Sam was just explaining his story to me,” Frannie pouts. “Did you know that Robert …,” she hesitates, thinking.

“Robert Louis Stevenson,” Sam whispers, smiling at Ray.

“Yeah, right,” Frannie shrugs her shoulders. “His father and grandfather were lighthouse designers in Scotland, isn’t that fascinating?”

Ray keeps looking at Sam. Where does he know all that stuff from? His head must burst with the knowledge.

“Actually, Frannie, I knew that,” Ray grins at Sam who looks as surprised as Frannie. “I was a fan when I was a kid.”

“You can read books, Ray?” Frannie grins teasingly and Ray can’t be mad at her. Frannie is a good kid. Irritating but good.

“Francesca!” Lt. Welsh’s voice echoes through the room, makes anybody duck their heads but Frannie. She just rolls her eyes and heels over to Welsh’s office, winking at Sam.

“She is a nice lady, Ray,” Sam says, looking after her.

“Lady, huh? Did your dad tell you that?”

“My father told me to address people with respect,” Sam explains seriously. “Especially women, he adds, who are often underestimated in society even though it’s due to them that humanity still exists.”

“Huh?”

Sam leaned over to Ray and whispered conspiratorially,

“Women have babies, Ray.”

Ray chuckles, oh, he really has to meet Fraser someday. The guy has to be unique.

“Yes, Sam, I know that.” He’s still laughing but Sam doesn’t seem to mind, he just smiles knowingly with him. “All right, let’s get to work then.” Ray gets serious again. He has a case to solve, a Mountie to find, a family to reunite.

“Understood.”

Ray is deeply buried in his case file, connecting dots to get closer to his answer bit by bit. Not of all it makes sense and he hurries over to Frannie’s desk, asks her look up some information about Jolly Hughes.

What was Jolly’s connection to Metcalf these days? They were lovers once and but that’s old news, at least as far as Ray knows. Why was she after Jolly now and killed him, even?

Turns out Jolly had a bad habit: gambling. And he wasn’t very good at it, losing a lot of money, pissing of the wrong people.

But he wasn’t killed by a bookie…

Ray reaches for his phone.

“Hey, Jake,” he greets, gesturing for Frannie to get Sam out of the bullpen for a minute. “’M good,” Ray leans back more easily in his chair when Sam and Dief slowly follow Frannie’s request to accompany her to the break room. “Look, Jake, I need some information about Jolly Hughes … Yeah, I know, he’s dead … Hmhmmmm … yeah,” he grabs for a piece of paper and a pen. “He did? How did a lowlife like Jolly manage that? Okay, thanks, Jake.”

Ray puts the receiver down, frowning.

Jolly Hughes had a half-million dollars in debts but just ten days before he got himself killed, he paid it all off.

Where did he get the money from?

Even if Metcalf still has the money from the robberies, which is the most likely, why would she give it to Hughes – former lover and all – then kill him afterwards?

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Kowalski!” Now it’s obviously Ray’s turn to get his head ripped off by his Lieutenant.

“How is your investigating going, Detective?” Welsh asks, sitting behind his desk, as soon Ray’s steps into his office.

“I just got started, Lieu.”

“Who’s the kid?” Welsh wants to know, when Frannie steers Sam into the office, a cup of coffee in his hands which he passes over to Ray.

“My name is …”

“Nephew, sir.” Ray interrupts Sam immediately, steering him toward the office door, glaring at Frannie who takes Sam by his shoulder and moves him out of the office again..

“Nephew?”

“Yeah,” Ray dismisses the question as unimportant with a wave of his hand, “some school project erm…’Take Your Nephew To Work Day’, sir.” He explains, quickly deciding to not tell his boss about Sam’s or even worse his father’s involvement in the case. Welsh might tell him to turn the kid over to Family Service.

“You’re working a murder investigation, Kowalski,” Welsh objects. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to take a kid along.”

"I may be damaged, sir,” Ray gets barely hold of his temper. “But I’m not stupid.” Of course a police station is no place for any kid, especially not Sam right now, but what is he supposed to do? Get rid of him and pretend that he’s never met him?

Ray is still angry when he closes Welsh’s office door but one look at Sam standing near his desk, looking kind of lost, and his anger vanishes into thin air. He has more important things to do now.

“Thanks for the coffee, buddy,” Ray smiles a Sam, petting his shoulder lightly while he take a sips. The boy relaxes visible.

“It’s not my intention to cause ill feelings between you and your Lieutenant, Ray.”

“You ain’t.”

“But I gathered …”

“C’mon, I have work to do,” Ray interrupts, pointing at the files on his desk.

“Understood.”

Sam attends to his book again and Ray starts reading his file once more – who knows what the wolf is up to at the moment, he’s nowhere to be seen. But if Sam isn’t worried, then Ray certainly isn’t going to start.

Ray still mulls over the money Jolly used to pay off his debts and... Metcalf is the only person he could have got it from. But why would she give it to him … except maybe she didn’t. Maybe Jolly took the money from her, pissed her off and got himself a bullet in the back.

But how?

In Fraser’s file is a list of banks in Chicago but Ray can’t find anything that would indicate that Metcalf had a bank account here, or a locker. But the money has to be somewhere and Fraser couldn’t finish his investigation. Maybe …

“Frannie!” Ray calls, hurrying over to her desk. “Can you make me a list of locker holders of all banks in Chicago?

“What?” Frannie looks at him like he asked her to run around the station in sneakers and a sweat suit.

“You know, I need to know if Hughes had a bank locker,” Ray waves his hand impatiently like his request should have been obvious to Francesca.

“No can do, Ray.”

“Why not?”

“It’s confidential information. You need a warrant for that kind of thing.”

“Damn!” Ray swears, nervous energy shooting through his body. He is on to something, he can feel it, a hunch.

“Harry.” A name suddenly springs to his mind.

“Who?”

“Just a friend,” Ray has turned his back to Frannie already, his mind running a hundred miles per minute. “Have a look in on Sam, will you?” He requests, grabbing for his jacket hanging over Sam’s chair. “I'll be back in a few,” Ray tells Sam. The boy just nods his head, keeping quiet, and Ray hurries of the station to his car.

In front of the GTO Diefenbaker is waiting for him and Ray frowns in surprise.

“Shouldn’t you be with Sam?”

But Dief obviously thinks otherwise, getting into the car when Ray opens the door, waiting impatiently for Ray to get the engine started already.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” Ray gets in, firing up the engine. “I still think you should stick with Sam.” But the half-wolf ignores him, looking out the front windshield, not able or willing to read Ray’s lips. “Have it your way.”

~::~::~

Harry Jackson is one of Ray’s oldest friends; Ray has known him since high school. Never lost contact with him even when they went their separate ways after school. Ray never made it through college but Harry did, and MIT.

Ray doesn’t even try to understand what Harry is doing exactly. Something with computers and … these things just hate Ray, most of the time he can’t even handle the printer. Freaking technology. But Harry is a wiz in whatever he’s doing and Ray counts on his good-will to bend the law just a bit.

Harry has his own company in downtown Chicago and he hugs Ray tightly when he walks into the door.

“Kowalski,” he greets, smiling brightly. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, Harry.” Ray can’t help but smiling at his friend. He looks exactly like you would picture a computer geek, thick glasses and all.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, Harry, meet Diefenbaker,” Ray introduced his friends. “Dief, that’s Harry.”

“You got a dog now, Kowalski?”

“No. And he’s a half-wolf.”

“How come?”

“Long story,” Ray takes a look around the room; people are working in front of computer stations everywhere. “Can we talk somewhere kinda private?”

“Of course, Ray.” Harry must have caught up on Ray’s secrecy, because he steers him and Diefenbaker into a separate office. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

While they sip on the coffees Harry looks expectantly at Ray.

“What’s up?”

Ray feels uncomfortable in his seat. Maybe he shouldn’t ask Harry to bend the rules for him. He could get a warrant after all, it may take some time but … He has no time, Ray decides and takes a deep breath. “You remember when we broke into the principle’s office and …”

“I remember,” Harry interrupts. “What is it, Ray?”

“I need your help with something.”

“That much is obvious.”

“It may be a little… illegal.”

“Yeah…”

“I need you to hack into bank computers to look up a name,” Ray looks steadily into Harry’s eyes.

“It’s police business?”

“Yeah, a warrant will take too much time and time is kinda of the essence here.”

Harry sighs deeply, “All right. I’ll do it.”

Ray is speechless; he has counted on his friend here but … “Just all right?”

“You wouldn’t ask me if it wouldn’t be important,” Harry answers seriously. “You are my oldest friend, Ray and I guess you wouldn’t lure me into something... questionable if it’s not really important.”

“Right. Yeah.” Ray is relieved beyond words.

“So, what am I looking for exactly?”

“Jolly Hughes.” Harry scribbles down the name on a piece of paper. “I need to know if he has a bank locker here in Chicago,” Ray hesitates, scratching the back of his neck, thinking. “On second thought look for a Benton Fraser as well.”

“Jolly Hughes, Benton Fraser,” Harry repeats and Ray nods his head in agreement. “That may take some time.”

“Just as fast as you can, Harry. Call me on my cell if you got anything, thanks!” He could hug his friend, he is so relieved. He feels deep down in his gut - a hunch - that he’s on the right track.

“Always a pleasure to help our fine men in blue!” Harry grins brightly, seeing Ray off.

~::~::~

When Ray gets back to the station Sam isn’t at his desk, and he looks around in a panic. Frannie is not at her desk either, so Ray goes to the break room where both his missing persons sit at a table.

Sam is wolfing down a burger and French fries on a plate in front of him while Frannie sticks to her diet of green salad, pinching a fry now and then.

“Hey,” Ray greets sitting down beside Sam, smiling brightly over Sam’s enthusiasm while finishing off his burger.

“Hello, Ray,” the boy smiles, ketchup dripping off his burger. “You should try this, it’s delicious, Ray.”

“Not very nutritious though,” Ray teases, remembering Sam’s distaste for bagels but grabs a French fry, slapping away Frannie’s hand who reaches for one at the same time.

“Its content is meat and tomatoes, and even a piece of cucumber,” Sam justifies his meal.

“And lots of fat and cholesterol.”

“I’m certain to burn most of it with a stern walk, Ray.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ray grins, getting up, and signals to Frannie that he will be at his desk. “Enjoy your meal.”

“Thank you, Ray.”

Back at his desk Ray attends to the paperwork which seems to magically appear whenever he leaves for more than a minute.

He updates his notes, re-types statements, signs documents and papers - always keeping an eye on Sam who, at the moment, is sitting on Frannie’s desk, obviously explaining some of the basic functions of her computer to her. An hour ago he was with Welsh who obviously couldn’t resist Sam’s eager question for a tour around the station.

“He is a bright boy, your nephew, Detective,” Welsh suddenly appears at Ray’s desk, making him jump with surprise.

“He takes after my sister-in-law,” Ray smiles weakly, knowing perfectly well that Welsh wasn’t born yesterday.

The lieutenant eyes him crucially, cocks his head at Ray. “I gather he will be here awhile?”

“Yeah,” Ray answers, still being alert, you never know with the Lieu. “Two days. Maybe three.”

“All right, Kowalski.” Welsh looks like he’s knows exactly that Ray is lying but lets himself be humoured. “I’ll take him down to the car pool tomorrow. Show the kid some real police work.”

Ray blinks.

Blinks again.

“You’ve got any problems with that?”

“No, sir!” Ray assures, lowering his head so Welsh won’t see him smile.

“Get out of here, then,” Welsh growls. “The city can’t pay for much more overtime.”

Just now Ray realises that’s after six already, closing time. Even Frannie is still here, taking care of Sam, and Ray feels a wave of gratitude for his boss and Frannie washing over him. Welsh should insist on handing Sam over to Family Service and Frannie, Frannie has enough on her hands already to look after an eight year old boy at the police station with all her coffee making, file sorting and whatever else she’s doing.

“Thanks, Lieu.”

Welsh just waves him off without another word, disappearing into his office, and Ray walks toward Frannie’s desk, listening to Sam’s low voice explaining the advantages of Apple to Windows.

What’s Windows?

“Hey, buddy, let’s call it a day.” Ray approaches, smiling gratefully at Frannie, but she just shakes her head like it’s all her pleasure.

“Certainly, Ray.” Sam smiles and shuts off something on Frannie’s computer with a quick movement of his fingers. “Good evening, Miss Francesca,” he greets, strolling after Ray out of the bullpen.

“Ah, Ray,” Frannie calls him back and Ray turns, facing her again. “At lunch I took Sam to Marti’s. The bags are in the break room.”

“Thanks, Frannie.” Ray lowers his gaze, almost ashamed that he hadn’t thought about buying food on his way from Harry’s. “Bye.”

“See you tomorrow, Sam,” she calls after them.

Sam is talking excitingly all way back to the apartment, even on their way up the stairs. So many thinks he has learned and seen today. Kids. It’s so long ago that Ray got worked up about something so simple like a vending machine – which functionally is quite fascinating, Ray - or a toy you get for free at McDonalds.

“What is this ‘Windows’ you told Frannie about?”

“It’s an operating system on a computer, Ray,” Sam steps into the apartment, hanging up his jacket neatly.

“Computers, huh?”

“Yes. You see, Ray, currently there are …”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Understood.”

Sam follows Ray into the kitchen like they already have a routine going, unpacking Frannie’s purchasing.

“Miss Francesca presumed that you wouldn’t have trouble cooking pasta,” he holds up a package, “and tomato sauce.”

“She presumed?” Ray shakes his head in disbelief. It’s a miracle that she hadn’t forced them over to the Vecchio house to feed them.

“I can help.” Sam offers eagerly.

~::~::~

Sam watches the pasta intently in its bubbly hot water while Ray prepares the sauce – onions, some tomato puree, water, salt, pepper. He has often cooked when Stella had to work late, nothing fancy but this he can do.

“It looks tasty, Ray,” Sam says, his head bend over his plate, taking a deep sniff.

“Dig in.”

They eat in silence for a moment but Ray can feel that something is bothering Sam, he’s just too polite to bring it up over their meal.

“Spit it out, Sam,” he encourages the boy.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just ask.”

“I was thinking about the progress of your investigation,” he hesitates then, nibbling on his lower lip. “Did you discover anything fruitful? Something my father may have missed?”

“Sam,” Ray puts down his spoon. “Your dad didn’t miss anything; he just hadn’t enough time to finish his investigation.” Sam nods agreeing. “I’m sure he told you about his work, what it means to be a police officer and his responsibility to follow any leads that present themselves. In fact, because of your Dad’s good work I have a pretty good idea of what happened.”

“Yes?”

“I think your …,” Ray stops immediately. No, he can’t tell Sam that his mother may have killed Jolly Hughes in cold blood because of some money he stole from her – if he did. Yes, he knows that his mother is a criminal, that she is a robber, maybe a murderer, even but …

“I am not a toddler, Ray,” Sam looks straight into his eyes. “I know what my mother did, what kind of person she is. I just want my father back.”

“All right,” Ray nods, his hands sliding sweaty over the kitchen counter.

“Ray?”

“I think that maybe Jolly was some sort of accomplice, that he had access to the money and, you know, he was a gambler, …”

“You are suggesting that she killed him because he was losing her money.” It sounds like a statement, not a question. Like Sam is following Ray’s comments as he would confront the facts, well, assumptions, really.

“We have no evidence that she killed him, Sam. None at all.” That’s true. There weren’t any traces which would lead to Victoria Metcalf – no murder weapon with prints, no DNA or such. Nothing. The murder scene was clean, except for the victim’s body of course.

“She may hurt him,” Sam whispers, his gaze fixed on his plate.

Ray doesn’t have to ask who Sam is talking about, there is only one person he could be referring to: his father.

“Sam …”

“I want to go to sleep,” Sam states, glides off his stool, and hurries into the bathroom without another word, Dief on his heels.

“Fuck,” Ray swears under his breath. This didn’t go very well. But how could it with a bitch for a mother and a father who has disappeared from the face of the earth. “Fuck!”

Hopefully Harry finds something out soon, even better if his hunch turns out to be true and Jolly really had a bank locker with all the money in it.

But why take Fraser hostage?

Assuming that he is a hostage. He could be dead by now and … God, Ray would be the one telling Sam and he would be the one handing him over to his aunt. But he would also be the one hunting Metcalf down and it won’t be pretty. No, Sir. He may even kill her for hurting the proud boy hiding in his bathroom right now, for hurting Fraser, and he doesn’t even know the guy yet.

“Fuck!”

Ray clears the counter, washes the dishes when Sam’s suddenly small voice wishes him a goodnight before he vanishes in Ray’s bedroom, closing the door behind him. The boy really must be down then, not even arguing about sleeping on the couch as he had suggested this morning.

Ray lowers his head and takes a deep breath – in and out, in and out.

He reads some more of Fraser’s notes then, hoping to find something, anything. Maybe an X marking the spot where she’s hiding out. But there is nothing more to find, maybe he’s too tired already, words have been dancing in front of his eyes for a little while now, despite his glasses.

Sleep, Ray finally decides. It won’t him do any good to be dead on his feet tomorrow, he needs his instinct in working order to figure this case out. He carefully opens up his bedroom door, seeing Diefenbaker pressed close to Sam again. Not even his friend’s presence could stop Sam’s tears, which are dried on his cheeks.

“’Night,” Ray whispers and closes the door again. He keeps standing in front of it for a moment before he turns to the couch, going to sleep.

~::~::~

The front door snaps shut and Ray jerks off the couch, grabbing for his pants. In his panic over Sam’s missing jacket on the wardrobe and the obvious absence of a hungry half-wolf it takes Ray five minutes or even ten to smell freshly brewed coffee, even longer to realise that Sam didn’t leave after all but took Dief for his morning walk.

Ray almost stumbles over his trouser leg, halfway up his leg, on his way to the kitchen, reaching for his life-blood.

“Thank you, Sam,” he whispers, taking a huge sip, feeling it hotly running down his throat, animating his still sleeping senses. Sam has obviously been awake for quite some time. His bed is made, the bathroom is clean, and there are even two plates on the counter – breakfast. Not to forget to mention the coffee. Ray takes another deep sip and decides to take a shower until Sam returns.

Ray is drying his hair when Sam comes back, greeting him smiling.

“Good morning, Ray.”

“Yeah, morning,” Ray mumbles through his towel.

“I took the liberty of preparing breakfast.”

“Breakfast, huh?” Ray eyes the kitchen counter suspiciously. Just before his shower he spotted only the plates but now there is also a milk carton, this oatmeal stuff he hasn’t eaten since he was a kid, and some fruit. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way,” he says, refilling his mug.

“You’re welcome, Ray.” Sam smiles, filling his own glass with orange juice. “Perhaps you want to try something healthier.”

“I’m good.” Ray takes another sip, helping Sam on his stool before he grabs for his sugar can. He won’t get down any of that oatmeal without it, Ray is sure of it.

“Did you know that a small community forty miles northwest of Austin, Texas, honours oatmeal with an annual festival, Ray?”

~::~::~

Ray has even more work than yesterday, more leads, more legwork and nothing to do with the case he’d rather be working on: finding Fraser.

There are not enough detectives to work exclusively on one case. Chicago is a huge city and huge cities never sleep, neither does delinquency.

Twelve assaults in the last fifty-five minutes, a shooting with unknown casualties, three murders, and Ray hasn’t even checked within last the ten minutes. At least Sam should have fun, he thinks, watching him walk out of the bullpen with Welsh."

Even Diefenbaker is currently busy, snooping around Gardino’s desk, obviously hoping to find some donuts again.

Ray takes a photograph of Fraser in his hand, studying it.

All his calls have turned up nothing, zero, zilch. Nobody knows anything about Metcalf – Metcalf who? He has even pissed off some of his snitches but still nothing. It’s like the woman has never entered Chicago and that’s just impossible. Somebody has to know something.

“That his Dad?” Frannie suddenly stands behind Ray’s chair, reaching for Fraser’s picture.

“Whose Dad?”

“Ray.” Ray can almost see her roll her eyes impatiently. “Sam’s, of course,” she says. “Look at the face, those eyes,” her voice turns dreamily and Ray rolls his eyes. Of course Frannie would go nuts over such a pretty face. “Their dark wavy hair …”

“You can’t tell that from the picture,” Ray answers angrily all of a sudden, Fraser’s hair isn’t even visible all that good, and he puts away the photograph. He knows he’s overreacting here but he feels useless. Nothing has come up yet and what is he going to tell Sam?

Why isn’t Harry calling?

“Keep your trousers on, Kowalski,” Frannie pouts.

“Pants,” Ray’s temper rises even more. “It’s keep your pants on.”

“Same thing,” Frannie glares right back at him before she turns and swaggers back to her desk, ignoring Ray deliberately.

Great.

Ray pushes off his chair, walking angrily into the break room, and pouring himself another cup of coffee - his sixth or seventh cup today. He has run out of M&M’s and compensates his chocolate loss with sugar, lots of sugar.

Deep breaths – in and out, in and out – while he sips his coffee. Ray has to keep a clear head here; otherwise nothing is going to work, not his instincts, and especially not his brain. Ray isn’t even a thinking kind of guy; he solves his cases by instinct, pure and simple. But this case? He’s too close, too involved and what’s going to happen if he’s wrong, if he can’t solve this case with what he’s got?

Harry, come on, he pleads, call me. Call me already and tell me what I need to know.

But no call is coming. The day goes by and Ray hasn’t found another lead. Sam is back, sitting on Ray’s desk reading again, and they should go home. But Ray can’t do that, he hasn’t done anything, he can’t go home like that.

“Ray? Ray! Ray?”

Just Sam touching his arm makes Ray aware that the boy is talking to him and he tries to concentrate on what Sam has to say.

“I’m listening.”

“Can we please go home now, Ray? It’s running late.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ray rolls his shoulders, looking around, and it really is late. Frannie has gone home, her desk deserted, as are most of the other detectives. Nathan, the station’s janitor, is working his circuit already. “Okay, let’s go, buddy.” he steers Sam in front of him out of the station.

They keep quiet on their way; Sam must sense that Ray isn’t in a talking kind of mood exactly. Only Diefenbaker in the backseat makes some noises, probably complaining about the lack of food that was offered to him today. Sam makes him hush but Ray really wishes for some noises, he can’t stand the silence. Silence makes him think, and thinking is not good right now. Today is a failure and he really needs to forget about it for a minute.

“How was your day, Sam?”

Sam looks at him out of the corner of his eye like he isn’t sure if he really should speak up. Ray cocks his head at him, encouraging him.

“I had a fine day, Ray,” Sam starts hesitantly. “Lieutenant Welsh took me, as you know, to the police car pool and … Oh, Ray,” he waves his hands excitingly now. “Of course I know the functionalities of cars but I’m more experienced with a snowmobile. But Mike – he’s a mechanic – let me take a look at the engine, and Ray, I helped him to repair it,” a huge grin spreads over Sam’s face. “It was running smoothly in the end, very satisfying.”

“I bet.” Ray can relate. It was always … something when he worked on the Goat with his Dad; those were the days. Of course he had been covered with grease and oil then, whereas Sam’s clothes are still clean. “Did Fr … your father teach you how a car is supposed to sound?”

“No,” Sam laughs out spontaneously, his voice sounds clear and amused. “My father isn’t very experienced with cars either. But he handles a dog sled like no other,” he adds proudly.

“A dog sled?”

“Yes,” Sam is still grinning and Ray can feel his joy, he has triggered a very good memory then. “A dog sled makes travelling on snow and ice easier; it’s more environment-friendly too. A good sled dog like Diefenbaker,” he turns in his seat to reach for Dief, petting his head, “can run to an average thirty-two kilometres per hours over distances up to 40 kilometres.”

“That’s fast,” Ray looks impressed at the smug half-wolf behind him.

“Unfortunately snowmobiles are advancing fast,” Sam sighs deeply. “My father’s detachment has both and we often travel with their dog sled to my aunt Maggie in Tuk.”

“Tuk?”

They reach Ray’s apartment building but Sam doesn’t stop talking about his adventures at home. Even through their way up the stairs and their meal preparing he talks about the dogs, which all have kind of funny names like Trudeau and MacKenzie, the best season to travel over the ice. There is even something like a road up to Tuktoyaktuk – Tuk for short, Ray - during winter time.

The leftovers from yesterday’s meal are served and Ray is about to dig in when a knock on the door makes him pause, frowning slightly. Nobody ever visits him at home. He only has a few friends and usually they meet up in a sport bar or a pub. Ray can actually count the times someone other than himself has been here, slept here. He isn’t dating much and if he gets lucky, he usually ends up at her place.

Diefenbaker at Sam’s side suddenly growls deep in his throat, his ears alert. An uneasy feeling settles in Ray’s stomach as he approaches the door slowly. He smiles reassuring at Sam who is still sitting on his stool, a plate of hot-steaming food in front of him.

For the millionth time Ray regrets not installing a peephole. Drawing his gun would be a bit extreme, he figures, because it could just be Mrs Gonzalez from downstairs, complaining about her neighbour, a young kid who turns up his music as loud as Ray used to when he was a teenager.

Dief's growls turn into actual barks. "Ray," Sam says warningly, but it's too late already. He opens the door and blinks rapidly, not believing who is standing in front of him. Impossible!

Victoria Metcalf.

At his door.

“Good evening, Detective,” she greets him, smiling and revealing the gun formerly covered by her dark coat. “May I come in?”

Victoria backs Ray into his apartment, her eyes fixed on Ray’s face, waiting for his move. Reaching for his gun is out of the question, at least right now. She is standing too close and it wouldn’t do him much good anyway so he tries for the Chicago default position: provocative and abusive.

“What do you want?" He hisses, but she just looks over his shoulder, ignoring him, the gun still steadily pointed at Ray’s chest. She wouldn’t miss him at this distance.

“Hello, son.”

Dief is barking insanely now but Ray can’t see him so he must be still at Sam’s side, maybe held back by him.

“Mother.”

Ray would very much like to turn around, to see Sam’s face – his voice doesn’t sound frightened but he knows the boy well enough to know that he is putting on a face.

“I’m truly sorry to interrupt your meal,” Victoria’s dark-cold eyes order Ray to step out of her way, giving view to Sam directly. “My son and I have important business to attend to.”

Ray’s head is spinning – he has to do something. He just can’t let her leave with Sam; he’ll never see him again.

“What happened to my father?” Only now is Sam’s voice breaking slightly and Ray sees him flinch, when Victoria sneers.

“Your precious father is alive,” she says. “The perfect Mountie thought he was so clever. You shouldn’t have pissed off the wrong people, Detective,” Victoria looks directly at Ray now, looking up and down his body, dismissing him of being unworthy of her attention. “You will see him soon,” her eyes wander from Ray to Sam. “Let’s go then.”

Sam glides off his stool carefully, his hands reaching for Diefenbaker who doesn’t seem to know what to do either, pressing close to Sam’s body but barking at their intruder.

“You better keep him quiet,” Victoria threats, moving her weapon briefly from Ray to the half-wolf.

“Diefenbaker,” Sam hugs Dief before he touches his lower back, makes him lay down whining. “Be good and listen to Ray.”

“Sam,” Ray wants to object but the brief pressure of Victoria’s weapon makes him shut up immediately.

“It’s all right, Ray.”

No, it's not okay, Ray wants to scream. His body is vibrating with rage.

“Samuel!” Victoria urges and Ray wants to hit her, badly, a solid punch right in her face, breaking her nose. She must sense his urge, because she places her gun right over his heart, glaring warningly. Diefenbaker whines louder again, almost barking, but he keeps down when Sam moves toward the door.

Do something, anything. Ray’s whole body is ready to jump her; raw energy is shooting through his body when a warm hand touches his, keeps him in control.

“She won’t hurt me, Ray,” Sam whispers, his deep-blue eyes looking troubled but not terrified, and Ray holds onto that hand, promising with his touch to not rest until he finds father and son.

“Samuel!” Victoria grabs for Sam’s small shoulder, pulling him away from Ray and out the door.

“You son of …,” Ray is about to curse when he sees Diefenbaker out of the corner of his eyes. But Victoria must see him aiming for her too; she wheels her gun around and fires before Ray can’t do anything but blink.

A loud bang.

A yelp of pain.

Sam struggles to get back into the apartment but is held back by his mother, relentlessly jostling him forward, and Ray is finally able to draw his own gun, following them down the stairs.

Victoria hears him approach and starts firing at Ray while Sam is screaming for his friend.

“Dief! Dief!”

But the half-wolf is not coming and Sam struggles even more fiercely against his mother’s grip.

“Dief!”

Victoria pulls Sam off the ground and over her shoulder, making it impossible for Ray to shoot.

“Ray, please.” Big tears stream down Sam’s face, his eyes pleadingly locked with Ray’s. “Dief.”

Doors get opened, neighbours scream and yell for the police but nobody tries to stop the woman with the crying kid. They just stand in Ray’s way. He’s pushing and shoving but when he finally makes it out of the building Victoria has disappeared. Not even Sam’s voice is audible anymore.

Goddammit!

Ray screams in frustration, his knuckles connecting painfully with the house wall. Hot blood runs down his battered hands.

Blood.

Diefenbaker.

Ray turns, and races up the stairs, not caring if he bumps into people on his way. His heart drums in his chest; his breathing comes in fits and starts when he rounds the corner to his apartment.

A puddle of blood spreads out under Dief’s body and Ray can’t breathe, he’s getting dizzy. The smell is overwhelming and red takes up his view. Red everywhere. He can’t see anything but blood and Diefenbaker, he … Oh my God, the half-wolf whines almost inaudibly and Ray is on his knees immediately, carefully touching Dief’s fur.

“Everything is going to be all right,” he whispers. “We will get you to a vet and he will fix you up. No problem.” Ray’s voices sounds hysterical even to his own ears. He pulls his shirt over his head, pressing it down on Dief’s shoulder to stop the bleeding. Ray’s shirt is soaked within minutes and he presses down even harder, making Dief yelp with pain.

“Sorry, mutt. I’m sorry!” Ray can taste his own tears running down his cheeks. “Hold on." He hurries over to the couch for the blanket, draping it around Dief’s body and lifting him off the ground carefully.

Down the stairs again.

The police have not arrived yet and Ray wouldn’t care if they had. Cold air is touching his skin, making him shiver but Ray just carries on, placing Diefenbaker in the front seat of his car, ignoring the blood soaking through the blanket and into the upholstery.

Ray remembers a veterinary hospital a few miles down the road; Frannie’s poodle Ante had needed surgery a few months back and Ray had given them a lift.

~::~::~

Fortunately people are quick at the hospital, taking Diefenbaker out of Ray’s arms and onto a stretcher, wheeling him away without so much as a second glance at Ray and his blood-soaked clothes. Ray is shaking badly now, he’s out of adrenaline and everything crashes down on him with a vengeance.

Diefenbaker could die right behind those doors. As could Sam, and Fraser. Wherever Victoria took them.

Victoria came into his home, his freaking home. Sam should have been safe there, protected. But … Ray drops onto a couch in the waiting area, his hands covering his face, dried blood on his palms and fingers.

Ray doesn’t know how long he’s sitting there, must be some time; at one point there is a vet-tech looking after Ray’s hand, cleaning it up, making Ray wince in pain. Then he falls asleep, exhaustion takes its toll, and light is already coming in through the windows when a hand on Ray’s shoulder shakes him carefully awake.

“Diefenbaker?” Ray sits up with a jerk, his head spinning with the sudden movement.

“Are you the owner of the shot half-wolf?” A young man, looking like a real doctor - you know in scrubs and a cap -, asks, eyeing Ray’s clothes and frowning.

“Is he okay?”

The man, his name tag identifying him as one Dr. Malloy, takes in the state Ray is in – blood-soaked clothes, bandaged hand - and obviously decides that Ray can’t handle anything before he knows how the animal is doing. “His condition is still critical. We’ll know more in forty-eight hours but he’s in good condition and an animal his age should fully recover. If he survives the first forty-eight hours,” he adds ominously.

Ray drops down on the couch again. Dief’s still alive, thank God. “Thanks, Doc,” he whispers, relief rushing through his body, making him weak in the knees.

“May I ask what a half-wolf is doing in Chicago?”

“He’s Canadian,” Ray answers, his right hand pinching the bridge of nose. He needs a clear head, he has a case to solve, a villain to catch.

Coffee.

“Coffee?”

“Down the corridor is a vending machine,” Malloy points down the aisle and Ray is on his way already when the doc calls him back. “Mr…?

Ray turns on his heels. “Kowalski. Detective Kowalski.” His batch is still clipped to his waist and he points at it.

“Detective, you have to sign the admission forms. We have to …”

“No time,” Ray grabs for the sheet in Malloy’s hand, signing it without a second glance. “I’ll be back later,” he says, already striding down the corridor toward the vending machine.

“But …”

“You better make sure that Dief is okay.” He warns, briefly glaring his cop-stare before he turns away completely, reaching into his pocket for some coins for his very much needed coffee.

It takes two more cups for Ray to get his brain functions in working order. He has to clean himself up, call Harry, and go after the bitch, the bitch who invaded his home, shot at him and Dief, threatened her own son, made him cry.

~::~::~

Ray’s apartment door is still open from last night. Fortunately, because his keys are in the jacket and his jacket is still hanging on the wardrobe where Sam put it last night.

Sam.

Rage is flaring, making Ray’s blood pump hotly through his veins and he’s about to lose his head over his own stupidity again when his cell phone starts ringing.

Harry.

“Harry!” He calls but on the other end is not Harry but Welsh.

“Kowalski,” he yells. “Where the hell are you, Detective?”

“At home.”

“Pick up your damn phone then.”

Ray sees the red light on his answering machine blinking.

“What happened, Kowalski?” Welsh asks, his voice not so angry anymore. He obviously has heard about the events last night and wants to know if his detective is all right and ready to work. But Ray has other plans and shakes his head that Welsh can’t really see, saying. “I’m good. I have to go …”

“Kowalski!” Ray hears Welsh yelling but breaks their connection; he can’t deal with paper work now if ever and heads for the shower when his cell phone rings again. Ray briefly thinks about not answering it but it could be Harry so he picks it up again, growling: “What?”

“Ray?”

“Harry!” The wall at his back, supporting Ray’s weight, he slides down to the floor. “Tell me you got something.”

“Ray, are you all right? You sound terrible.”

“Information, Harry,” Ray says. “All I need is information.”

“I got a hit on both names, Ray,” Harry answers, his voices sounding unconvinced about Ray’s state. “Hughes and Fraser are registered for a bank locker at Northern Trust over at 120 E Oak St.”

“What?”

“The same locker number, Ray.”

Ray rests his head on in knees; everything starts to make sense now. Metcalf couldn’t hide the money under her own name so she arranged a little deal with her former lover/accomplice Jolly and because she didn’t completely trust him she got Fraser’s name on the list too. Just in case something happened to Jolly.

And something happened to Jolly.

Jolly got careless and became a problem, paying off his gambling debts with her money, and now Fraser is the only one with access to the money. Of course Fraser wouldn’t get the money for his wife and she had to come up with a backup plan.

Sam.

Ray curses under his breath.

“Ray?” Harry is still on the phone waiting for Ray’s reaction. “Ray?”

“Thanks, Harry, you’ve been a great help.” Ray hangs up, his hopes rising. It may not to be too late yet. Metcalf just got Sam yesterday evening and the bank opens in - Ray looks at his watch - two hours.

Ray takes a shower, a long and hot one, washing off Diefenbaker’s blood from his hands, arms and face.

Diefenbaker.

He has to call the hospital before he leaves, Ray thinks. He towels his hair dry while he walks into his kitchen, preparing a cup of coffee. Instant, this time. Just some powder and hot water.

There are five calls on his answering machine; Ray deletes the messages after listening to Welsh’s angry voice each time he presses the button, and picks up the phone. “It’s Kowalski,” he says, reaching with his free hand for his gun, checking its ammo before he puts it in its holster. “I wanna check on Diefenbaker, the half-wolf I brought in last night … mmhmm … Yes. Okay. Thanks!” Dief’s doing good, not great but good. Ray closes his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath.

Time to rock and roll.

~::~::~

The bank has been open for about five minutes when Ray finally finds a parking spot. He has to shove his badge in the teller face to get an answer about whether a man about his own height with dark hair has been down to the lockers yet. Some more glaring, a bit more veiled threatening, and he has his answer, no, no one by that description has entered the bank yet, nor a dark-haired woman with a kid.

Ray settles down a bit. All right, he is still in the game; he smiles meanly at the teller and walks to the other end of the room. He has a good view of anybody entering the bank here.

Ten o’clock.

Eleven.

Still no sign of Fraser or even Metcalf.

Ray doesn’t think she would show her face here - she has a hostage after all -, and Fraser would do anything to keep his son safe.

Two o’clock.

Nervousness spreads inside of Ray’s body. He’s hungry, he has to take a piss and people start to look at him a bit funny.

Three, four o’clock.

Come on! Come on!

Ray’s bladder is about to burst - he really shouldn’t have drunk that much coffee - when the bank doors open and a dark haired man enters. The energy in the room seems to shift; everybody is looking at the newcomer like someone turned a spotlight on him. People move out of his way, when he walks toward his destination, slowly taking in his surroundings. Like he’s looking for someone.

Ray’s heart starts to beat faster.

Fraser.

He looks different without the uniform but Ray knows it’s him; he has studied his face for too many hours – dark hair, blue eyes. But something about him seems off and a sick feeling starts spreading in Ray’s stomach.

Fraser, he wants to call out, make his presence known. And suddenly Fraser’s eyes catch his, looks startled for a split-second and Ray hears in own heartbeat in his ears, he’s breathing too fast, his palms sweaty.

Fraser doesn’t stop moving, just keeps steadily moving forward. He holds Ray’s glance and Ray lifts his right hand, touches his nose, nods his head. Fraser answers in kind, tipping his nose, a small, shy smile playing around his lips. Ray relaxes visibly. They are on the same page, understand each other without words, even without knowing each other.

Fraser is led by a teller down a flight of stairs to the bank lockers and Ray watches his back, notices he's moving stiffly like maybe he's got a couple of cracked ribs.

Bitch.

It’s almost painful to watch Fraser moving away, to let him out of his sight, but they have some kind of unspoken plan. Ray has to be patient, wait for his cue.

Fifteen minutes later Fraser appears again, a backpack over his shoulder: Sam’s, Ray notices. The female teller at Fraser’s side seems absolutely smitten with Fraser, smiling like a loon and holding onto Fraser’s hand too long when he shakes hers goodbye. Fraser just smiles reservedly, saying something that makes her nod her head seriously and finally she let’s go of Fraser’s hand.

On his way out Fraser’s eye briefly lock with Ray’s again before he passes by Ray and is out the door, gone.

Ray is still staring after Fraser; it’s almost unreal that he has been here at all. Like those aliens from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

“Detective?” The female teller who accompanied Fraser down the stairs stands beside Ray, holding out a piece of paper to him. “Mr. Fraser asked me to give you this.”

“Thanks,” Ray blinks, taking the paper.

Union Station – New York at 7:05 p.m.

Fraser is leading him to Metcalf, and Sam.

Ray hurries out of the bank, just seeing Fraser disappear around the corner. No car, then. He takes a look at his watch: it’s 5:55 p.m. now. Traffic will be hell at this time of day so he sprints to his car and fires up the engine.

Every now and then Ray catches a glimpse of Fraser walking on the sidewalk; he’s as fast on foot as Ray is with his car.

Somewhere on Adams and Peoria, Ray loses sight of Fraser. Each traffic light he reaches turns red in front of him, and there are suddenly more cars around him than drunk people on Saint Patrick’s Day.

Ray’s hands start to sweat and the urge to put his siren on the roof of his car is almost impossible to resist. But he can’t do that so he tries to move the cars around him by pure force of will.

Dammit!

Time is ticking – 6:43 p.m. Ray jumps out of his car, leaving it behind in a no-parking zone, running through the street like a maniac, not paying any attention to anything outside of his destination. He passes stores and shops, hookers, clubs and take-outs. Red pedestrian lights … His lungs are about to burst – he won’t smoke one cigarette ever again -when he finally reaches Union Station, gasping for breath.

Train to New York now departing on platform twenty-one. Train to New York now departing.

Twenty-one – Ray looks around in panic, he can’t be too late, he can’t. There – twenty-one, and he starts running again, reaching for his gun, putting on his glasses while he flies down the stairs, and up again.

Platform twenty-one is deserted; all passengers boarded already, doors closed.

Ray can’t see anybody. No one.

Wait.

Up in the front opens a door and a dark-haired woman appears, struggling with … Sam. She’s holding him by the shoulders, keeping him still in front of her body.

“Fraser!” Metcalf calls and when the train starts moving slowly out of the station Fraser appears out of the shadows, holding up his backpack, running for the train.

What the hell is he doing, Ray wonders and starts running after him, aiming for Metcalf. But he can’t make a safe shot, Fraser is blocking his aim and … Time seems to come to a stop and Ray isn’t breathing anymore nor moving. Absolute standstill.

It’s like a movie played in slow motion - Fraser has reached the open door, holding out the money, and Metcalf grabs the bag, grinning satisfied and then … then she pushes Sam.

Out the door.

Of a moving train and …

Everything around Ray starts moving again, he screams in horror, his feet moving faster than he thinks human possible. But he won’t reach Sam, the boy will crash to the ground and there will be blood and … dead and …

Fraser.

Both Fraser’s arms are stretched to the impossible, even from this distance Ray can see the sweat running down Fraser’s face. But he catches his son, both arms going around Sam’s small body, pressing him protectively against his chest. But Fraser suddenly loses control of the situation. The sudden impact of Sam’s body screws up Fraser’s balance and he can’t use his arms to get it back. He staggers. But he has too much momentum and ... He does the only thing possible without hurting Sam, he turns sideways bringing his own body between the concrete and Sam, and crashes hard to the ground on his back.

Ray doesn’t notice the train moving away, his vision only fixed on Fraser down on his back, on Sam moving carefully off of his father, touching his face.

“Dad?”

“Sam,” Ray gasps when he finally reaches them, going down on his knees, checking for Fraser’s pulse.

“Is he all right, Ray?” Sam whispers, tears shinning in his eyes.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Ray’s hands move frantically on Fraser’s throat, he suddenly doesn’t seem to remember where a pulse beat is supposed to be.

“That would be my Adam’s apple, Detective.” Fraser’s eyes are suddenly open, looking directly into Ray’s for a second or an hour or something, Ray doesn’t know, before they move on and to Sam. He reaches for him, pulling him close, his big hands cradling Sam’s head against his chest. “Are you injured, Sammy?” He asks, whispering in Sam’s ear. Sam shakes his head.

“No, Dad, I’m fine.”

“Thank god.”

“What about you, Dad?”

“A pulled muscle or two, nothing more,” he assures, but Ray knows it's probably not true.

~::~::~

As it turns out Fraser injuries include two broken ribs, a mild concussion - which earned him a night in the hospital - and a badly bruised back.

Of course Sam refuses to leave his father’s side, once they get Fraser to the hospital - which wasn’t without difficulties and a lot of polite arguing - so Ray decides, with even more complaints from Fraser, saying that it really is not necessary for Ray to keep them company, or to stay at the hospital too. Ray’s neck is sore from sleeping sitting in a chair but the picture of father and son cuddling close in the hospital bed in front of him makes him forget about any pain he may feel.

Two dark haired heads on one pillow, Fraser’s arm protectively around Sam’s small form. It looks so peaceful, like nothing could ever stop them being together, being a family.

Ray quietly stands up and leaves the room; he has to check with Dief and with his Lieutenant, who, no doubt, is going to rip his head off for not telling him what was really going on.

Diefenbaker is recovered from anaesthesia and Malloy is confident that Dief is going to make it. Twenty-four hours, Malloy says, and he will know for sure. Greatness.

His call to Welsh isn’t all that pleasant, lots of yelling on both sides but it could be worse. Ray could have lost his job but it looks like Welsh is going to find another way to punish him – paper work, lots of it.

With a cup of steaming hot coffee in his hand Ray enters Fraser’s room again.

“’Morning,” he greets when Fraser’s eyes meet his. “You feeling okay? You need anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Detective,” Fraser smiles, stroking Sam’s hair absently.

“Ray, just call me, Ray.” He sips on his coffee just to do something but staring at Fraser, and Fraser nods his head in agreement, his hand still in his son’s hair. “He’s a great kid.”

“Yes. Yes, he is,” Fraser smiles down on his still sleeping son. “I’m forever grateful for your help, Ray,” he says and Ray winces, he hasn’t done anything but lost Fraser’s son and got Dief hurt. It isn’t because of him that Sam is all right.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Of course you did, Ray,” Fraser objects. “You took care of a child you had no responsibilities for, you even tolerated an almost insufferable wolf.” A small smile plays around his lips before he gets serious again. “How badly is Diefenbaker hurt?”

“He’s going to be okay,” Ray assures, his glance nervously wandering around the room, not settling anywhere for long. He can’t stand Fraser’s grateful looking eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Ray …,” Fraser is about to say when Sam moves in his arms, awakening.

“Dad?”

“I’m here. Everything is all right,” he whispers, holding Sam close while his blinding smile takes Ray’s breath away, and Ray suddenly wants to flee the room, just to escape from this man’s gaze. The air is too thick all of a sudden and Ray shuffles his feet.

“Did you have your coffee yet, Ray?” Sam asks, pulling carefully free of his father’s arms and sits up to look at Ray.

Ray grins. “Yeah,” he holds up his cup and Sam nods like he approves of his unhealthy drink this morning.

“I have to urinate,” Sam states, hopping out of bed and to the door. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, closing the door behind him, leaving Ray alone with Fraser.

Silence settles over the room and suddenly Ray asks himself what he is still doing here? He should be home now, or even better, at work, facing his punishment but … something keeps him here, close to Sam, and to Fraser. It’s like he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to go on with his life like before they came into his life, turned it upside down.

“She won’t be coming back,” Fraser suddenly quietly says, his eyes locked with Ray’s and Ray hears the pain behind those words, the regret.

Fraser just got screwed over by his wife. Completely.

Ray can’t even imagine what it must feel like. Yes, Stella threw him out of her life too but at least they had a life together, he has always been certain that she has loved him as much as he has loved her. Love isn’t always enough. But Fraser, he hasn’t even that certainty. Metcalf may have used him, and their son, right from the beginning. That really must be hell. A whole life built on lies.

“You really think so?” Ray can’t believe that the whole affair may be over, done; he can’t believe that someone would leave Sam, and Fraser, behind. Just like that. For money.

“Yes, Ray,” Fraser lowers his glance. “She got what she came here for; she won’t be coming back for us.”

“But …”

“I know her, Ray,” Fraser's eyes connect with Ray's again. “Perhaps for the first time I’m absolutely certain about something she’s doing.”

“But you must have … you …,” Ray doesn’t quite know how to ask why Fraser didn’t suspect anything earlier, why he …

“I was in love,” Fraser whispers, his head lowered like he’s ashamed of himself. “In my own defence, I can only plead that the saying that ‘love is blind’ is true after all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She is the mother of my son,” Fraser simple says like the fact alone is worth any pain. He tries to sit up in his bed then, and Ray rushes to his side, helping him. “Thank you kindly, Ray.”

Ray’s hand rests on Fraser’s shoulder a second longer than absolutely necessary. He feels the strength of the man underneath his hands, feels the heat of Fraser’s body and … he pulls away immediately.

This is insane.

The man is just screwed over by his wife. He has a son, for God’s sake. Ray’s head is spinning; not believing with what his brain just comes up, his heart, even.

Stress.

Yes, that’s what it is. Too much adrenaline, not enough sleep. No way is he going to fall in … to get attached to a guy he barely knows at all. Not even Ray is that stupid.

“Are you all right, Ray?”

“Yeah,” Ray nods. “I’m peachy. Great even.” He rolls on the back of his heels, wishing for Sam to finally come back so he doesn’t have to be alone with Fraser. But Sam isn’t doing him the favour and Ray starts pacing up and down like he always does when he’s nervous.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, Ray?”

“What?” Ray stops in his track. “No! Of course, not. No.”

“Ah, I see.”

“What do you …,” Ray starts to ask when finally the door opens and Sam enters, a doctor in toe.

“Good morning gentlemen.”

~::~::~

So now Ray isn’t just uncomfortable in a hospital room but in his own home. Fraser somehow is always standing too close to him, in his personal space. Constantly bumping into him; in the kitchen, the living room, just everywhere. It’s like Ray’s apartment suddenly has turned into the size of a cardboard box.

If he hears Fraser’s ‘I’m truly sorry, Ray’ or ‘We’ll be out of your hair soon’ one more time Ray is going to burst. He should have left Fraser in the hospital but he just couldn’t do that so he has to deal with his presence. In fact he’s been dealing for over seventy-two hours now.

The first day was easy; Fraser wasn’t allowed to walk around much and he had to stay in bed, Ray’s bed. Of course Fraser had argued the point, like father like son. But when Sam secretly advised Ray to mention the magic word “hospitality” Fraser gave in.

But now Fraser is on his feet all the time and as much as Ray loves to have him and Sam in his home, he doesn’t know how much more of it he can stand. He’s growing too attached to them, it’s almost painful. Letting them walk out of his life again will be living hell. He won’t hear Sam talking to Dief, who was released two hours ago, already begging for donuts again, or Fraser telling a weird Inuit story of which he must know a thousand. He wouldn’t have to eat oatmeal or vegetables either but that’s just a small price to pay for their presence.

“Ray?” Sam suddenly stands beside him, picks on his sleeve and when Ray looks up, the boy points his head toward his father who’s standing near the window. Again.

Fraser does that a lot. When he’s not standing in Ray’s personal space that is.

The first time it happened Sam had walked up to Fraser, hugging him tight and Ray had watched them standing by the window in a close embrace for a long time.

“He is thinking about my mother,” Sam whispers and Ray nods his head, his eyes fixed on Fraser’s back. They haven’t talked about what happened at all. Not about what she did to Fraser or to Sam while he was in the hands of his mother. But Sam escaped unharmed whereas Fraser’s injuries are painfully obvious on his pale skin. Maybe it’s time to get it out in the open.

“I’ll talk to him,” Ray says, smiling assuring at Sam. “Maybe you give us a minute or two,” he asks and walks toward Fraser while Sam disappears in Ray’s bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Ray just stands behind Fraser by the window. Fraser image is reflected by the glass so Ray can see the pained expression on Fraser’s face.

“Hey, Frase,” he whispers quietly and Fraser covers his eyes with his left hand.

“Ray.” He sounds surprised, like he has forgotten that he’s not alone.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“There is nothing to talk about, Ray,” Fraser assures, turning away. “We survived and we will learn to live with it.”

“She hurt you.”

Fraser laughs bitterly briefly. “She hurt my body, Ray. Perhaps my ego, my foolish pride. But she lost the power to hurt me a long time ago.”

“But why …,” Ray is confused. He thought Fraser would be crushed to be betrayed by his wife, by someone he loved.

“Why what, Ray?” Fraser’s voice rises a tad and he turns around, facing Ray. “Why did I stay with her? Why didn’t I leave when I learned who she really was?”

“Yeah, why didn’t you …”

“She had a darkness inside of her. I kept trying to bring out the light but I failed. I wasn’t able to…, I couldn’t save her.”

“What?” That’s the most ridiculous thing Ray has ever heard. Metcalf was an evil bitch long before she came into Fraser’s life and Fraser thinks it’s all his fault? “You are unhinged,” Ray states, getting angry. “So you made her rob banks, kill people. It’s your fault that she screwed you over, you and Sam. That is so stupid. It’s even more stupid than …”

“Ray. Ray. Ray!”

“What?”

“It was not my intention to upset you. I was merely trying to explain …”

“Shut up, Fraser!” Ray starts pacing up and down, working his anger out of his system before he kicks Fraser in his head.

Doesn’t the guy know how amazing he is? He and his son both?

“I have never met anyone like you, Fraser. You … you are … something else and do not tell me ever again that any of this is your fault,” Ray glares at Fraser. “I know you and I know Sam,” he shakes his head now not really knowing how to get is point across. What even is his point? He doesn’t know and he isn’t that good with words anyway so he reaches for Fraser, pulls him into a hug. “You are a good man, Fraser,” he whispers into Fraser ear. “And I like you.”

Obviously these are the right words because Fraser relaxes against Ray’s body, hugs him back, even.

“Thank you, Ray.”

“You’re welcome.” Ray whispers, his mouth still close to Fraser ear, too close and he tries to pull back. But Fraser holds onto him. Strongly.

Oh, this is so not good. Ray really shouldn’t touch Fraser’s side, his back but he can’t help it, slides his hands up and down Fraser’s body in soothing movements.

After what seems like hours Ray finally lets go of Fraser, who rubs over his eyebrow in embarrassment, same as Sam does and Ray grins. His two Canadians are just adorable.

~::~::~

With each passing hour, minute even, Ray gets more and more anxious. Diefenbaker is recovered enough to pass through quarantine and is placed into a box to be flown up North, which means that Fraser and Sam will return home soon. In roughly three and a half hours to be exact and Ray doesn’t know what to do. He’s about to lose his head. His third cup of quadruple-shot venti coffee he got from Starbucks isn’t really helping to calm him down.

“Ray, please settle down,” Fraser says, touching his shoulder that isn’t really helping to calm Ray’s nerves. Sam is smiling by their side, his backpack in hand. Both got rather used to Ray’s coffee addiction over the last week and the effect is has on him. “Perhaps you really should consider the amounts of coffee you consume.”

“I’m good, Fraser.”

“I really doubt that, Ray.”

“I think we will buy you decaffeinated coffee when you come to visit us, Ray,” Sam grins, reaching for Ray’s hand and Ray holds onto that hand, knowing that he won’t be able to do so for a very long time. Maybe never again. They may talk about a visit but long distance friendships never last long and maybe with a few miles between them Fraser will realise that Ray has touched him with more intent than is explained by pure friendship.

“We will miss you, Ray,” Fraser says in front of their gate, pulling him into a hug. “I will miss you,” he clarifies and Ray nods his head against Fraser’s shoulder.

“Me too, Frase, me too.”

“I will see you soon,” Sam stretches out his hand to shake Ray’s but Ray just kneels down and holds him close. “Keep an eye on your dad for me, will you?”

“Of course, Ray.” Sam affirms seriously before he lets go of Ray and both walk through the check-in where Ray can’t follow.

Everything Ray’s life has circled around during the last week is walking away from him, he feels like crying. That feeling doesn’t stop when he reaches his apartment again; catching sight of Sam’s book “Treasure Island” on the kitchen counter. No way has Sam forgotten about it. He has left it as a gift to Ray.

Ray drops down on his couch that is still covered in white fur – Diefenbaker – and closes his eyes.

~::~::~

During the following weeks it seems as though Ray’s apartment has forgotten that Fraser, Sam and Diefenbaker ever existed.

First gone is their smell. Followed by the strands of dark hair on Ray’s pillow, Dief’s fur on his couch, in his car. It’s just the blood that refuses to vanish completely.

Life is miserable. Just Sam’s letters, telling stories from school, his new best friend Daniel, and a brief vacation at his aunt’s, with brief additions of Fraser who is mostly talking about his work at the detachment, bring some light in Ray’s life these days.

Ray misses his adopted family – the dark haired man with his sad blue eyes and warm hands, the boy, a doppelganger of his father, but a person of his own with his quicksilver mind.

“Ray! Ray!” Frannie is yelling through the bullpen and when Ray finally hears her she points at the phone on his desk that’s ringing for obviously quite some time.

“Kowalski,” he growls into the receiver.

“This is Constable Fraser speaking,” Ray sits up straight in his seat. Fraser has never called him before. Did something happen? Sam? Dief? Is Metcalf back?

“Ray! Ray! RAY!”

“Yeah, Frase, I’m here. I’m here. What …,” Fraser must pick up on Ray’s panic then and interrupts his words immediately.

“Everything is all right, Ray,” he says, a coughs follows. “That’s not entirely true but we are well, we all are.”

“Great,” Ray sighs in relief before he catches on what Fraser has said. “What do you mean not entirely, Fraser?”

“We are well, Ray,” Fraser repeats and Ray thinks that something is hinky. “Sam’s birthday is next month, Monday the 18th to be exact, and I wanted to … I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask, it’s quite a long way and …”

Ray starts grinning over Fraser’s babbling. He’s nervous and a nervous Fraser means something, something important.

“I'll be there, Frase.”

“That’s … that’s good, Ray. Sam will be delighted to have you here. You see, we planned …”

“Fraser!”

“Yes, Ray?”

And it’s now or never, Ray has to jump. Now.

“Will you be delighted to see me?”

“Yes, Ray,” and Ray can almost see that shy smile on Fraser’s lips and wishes to be with him. Now. And forever.

“You know what I’m talking about don’t you, Fraser?”

“Yes, Ray, I do. But I’m afraid we have to delay our discussion about matters of the heart until you arrive. I’m currently using the phone at the detachment which doesn’t give me the liberty to speak freely.”

Matters of the heart.

Ray starts grinning like a fool. So Fraser really knows what Ray’s talking about.

“I miss you guys,” Ray says, still smiling. “And I miss you.”

“We miss you too, Ray.”

“See you soon, Frase.”

“Have a safe journey, Ray,” Fraser says before he hangs up and Ray jumps out of seat, heading toward the break room. He has to start storing up caffeine; he may not get any in Canada.

 

The End

***

Epilogue

Ray doesn’t need to ask for directions. Sam has drawn him a map with little side notes of where he can get his coffee or candy, leading him through town, out of it and toward a cabin, about two miles out of Inuvik.

It’s getting dark already but that is to be expected, it’s September after all, and Ray walks easily toward his destination. Not just for today but his life. Maybe.

Ray didn’t tell Fraser when he would arrive, exactly, he wanted some time to get a feel for this place and there is no better way than running around on your own – hopefully without getting lost. It really wouldn’t look so good to run around in circles or to get eaten by a bear before he even made it to the cabin.

But no, there it is. Sitting on a small hill, a barn right beside the wooden cabin, smoke welling up the chimney.

Home.

That thought makes Ray stop in his tracks, listening to his wild beating heart.

Home.

There's a light shining through one window and Ray can see the shadow of a man walking around.

Fraser.

Ray’s feet move on their own accord now and he almost reaches the first step when a loud bark makes him turn on his heels. Diefenbaker emerges out of the barn, almost knocking Ray on his ass.

“Hey, mutt.” Ray greets him, smiling; he's still scratching Dief’s ears when the door behind him opens and Fraser steps outside.

“Ray.”

“Ray!” Sam’s voice sounds from the barn, he’s running toward Ray. He’s almost as fast as Diefenbaker and twice as enthusiastic, flying into Ray’s outstretched arms.

“Ray!”

“Hey, Sam,” Ray grins, holding Sam close. “Happy Birthday!”

“Thank you, Ray,” Sam whispers near Ray’s ear, hugging him one more time before he lets go. “You have to meet my friends, Ray,” Sam says, pointing towards the barn. “We’re camping out in the barn. We even have a small campfire.”

“Perhaps you should attend to your duties as a host now, Sam,” Fraser says, his eyes sparkling with amusement over his son’s excitement.

“I’m happy you are here, Ray,” Sam says and runs back towards the barn, vanishing inside with one last glance back, waving his hand.

Ray watches him go, feeling Fraser sitting down beside him on the steps of the cabin.

Silence falls around them while the tension between them grows. Ray can feel Fraser’s eyes on him, his warmth nearby and he moves closer bit by bit until his right side is pressed close to Fraser’s body.

“We’re happy that you are here, Ray,” Fraser whispers in Ray’s ear, making him shiver.

“Yeah, me too,” Ray turns his head, his face close to Fraser’s now, and everything he has to know is written in Fraser’s eyes.

Home.


End file.
